


kept us awake with wolves' teeth

by monanotlisa



Category: Fringe
Genre: Apocalypse, Blueverse Meets Redverse, Dom/sub, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 05:23:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/pseuds/monanotlisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Or maybe we get the hell out of here instead." Her smile is a razor, but it's not its threat that makes Lincoln nod but how thin it is: as if there's little left of her.</i></p><p>[branches off at some point after 3x17 "Stowaway]</p>
            </blockquote>





	kept us awake with wolves' teeth

The tug that gets Lincoln out of the way of the beams of lightning is sharp enough to be called a jerk; he chokes a little, his hands automatically clutching around the ones that grabbed the collar of his dress shirt so suddenly.

Slim hands, long fingers. When his eyes have stopped watering -- when she has dragged him around the corner -- he blinks at his saviour.

"Agent Dunham?" he rasps, and she grins in a way that seems even less familiar than the expressions of the man inhabiting her body that last time.

That said, the red hair and the black leather jacket do underline this vague impression of his.

"Not the one you were expecting." Olivia Dunham lets him go, but not abruptly, and she's still standing pretty damn close for someone who's just confessed to not having been properly introduced yet. "Not whom anyone was expecting, I guess."

Lincoln swallows. He's missed not one memo but a whole file folder full of them, full of alternate universes and their inhabitants, but she's quite right about her latter point. Still, he can't see any reason for this double from the other side to save a random agent on the FBI payroll in the midst of the apocalypse, so maybe she's not currently hell-bent on helping to destroy their world. "Maybe we should find the team and --"

"Or maybe we get the hell out of here instead." Her smile is a razor, but it's not its threat that makes Lincoln nod. It's how thin it is: as if there is little left of her.

She pushes him forward, presumably for the chance to shove a gun into his kidneys if he doesn't behave, but the motion is almost gentle. "Okay," Lincoln says in his most reasonable voice, "we can do that." He guesses he actually can, although of course Broyles will silently curse his absence, and Peter -- well, okay, Peter has other things to worry about at the moment.

"Good boy." He cannot see her while he's stumbling forward into the darkness and away from the explosions, their sound and light and vibration, but her voice is smiling.

Other side or not, she knows this place, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Unerringly, she guides him into back-alleys and through passageways, even through a narrow cobble-stone conduit that he didn't even know Boston possessed, rainwater flowing freely across their shoes, soaking them almost up to the knee. He half-expects hounds to start barking far behind them.

This Olivia Dunham is not chatty, but she does speak, eventually. "This door, up the stairs. Hurry."

He does; they both do. The floorboards creak under the soles of her boots, his tread not much lighter. Her hands resting not-so-loosely on his shoulders, she pushes past him to stick two fingers into a niche between two bricks, to fish out a key. "Open the door."

The room they enter is small, sparsely furnished: kitchenette, table, a second room where he can glimpse a bed. "A safehouse?" The thought of the shapeshifters, of another Walter Bishop having set aside such places in their world is disconcerting, if probably too late now.

"Yes, but it's mine and mine alone, set up on a whim during my assignment here." He dares to look at her, and her eyes are softer now, focused on his face. "A stitch in space, if you will."

He can't be wrong about this. Mostly because she might kill him. "You learned more after that assignment and decided not to go along in the end. You ran."

Her eyes are like the sea before a storm, but not the way one would think: like there's a volcano erupting deep underwater. "I don't run." She does glance away then. "But I did walk away, you're right. All of us did, and we--" she exhales. "It doesn't matter now what we did. I'm here, and I need to hide for the time being."

He's only read about her, and hell, he doesn't even know this side's Olivia Dunham well. Why did she take him along, of all people. There are better hostages (if, he thinks ruefully, probably each of them stronger and more dangerous, so). "And I?"

"You stay with me," Olivia says, and says the thing that throws him most, out of everything today: "Lincoln, _please_ ".

He opens his mouth to laugh, an incredulous little huff at the very least, but he sees her expression, so he says yes, yes he will.

Courtesy of Ockham, Lincoln knows this right here is unlikely to be part of any master plan on part of the Olivia Dunham standing in front of her. It's still craziness to not fight what amounts to the kidnapper of an FBI agent. Except.

She's looking at him. "Why are you even here now?"

It's a question he's asked himself before, and one he'd like to answer easily by stating his credentials and successes both due to a brilliant mind and unwise amounts of caffeine. But the truth is at once more complex and a lot simpler. "I was in the right place at the right time, and the Fringe division was one agent short."

She covers her flinch at the second part a little too late only, but she had no worries about letting him see her grim expression at the first one. She steps up, close enough for her hair to brush his arm and her scent hit his nose, then steps behind him and turns the key from the inside. Lincoln's certain the click shouldn't sound quite so final or, for that matter, ominous.

He wills his hands to be steady, and his voice too. "Why are we ever where we end up? I don't know."

"Newsflash, Lincoln: no one does, even if some pretend." The downwards tug at the corner of her mouth shouldn't mean anything to him. But it does make sense, at least her behaviour does now, and it's her invitation more than any innate need of his to be the white knight to a dark knight on a chessboard he's never seen more than one corner of.

He reaches out, and while her eyes track his hand intently, she doesn't stop him and doesn't move away. Even under the thick layer of her jacket she feels warm to him, and not all of this can be his own raised temperature, or that of the room, where clearly someone has turned the heat up. "Olivia," he says, testing the name on his tongue, and he knows he's right the moment she meets his eyes again.

"I know it's fucked up," she says quietly, her fingers circling his wrist gently. When she doesn't push but pull, pull him in, he's not surprised any more. "But I want, I need --"

"Okay," he says, an echo in more than one way, but it's heart-felt; that's almost exactly where it hurts so strangely.

She doesn't kiss him, then, instead slips his glasses off with her free hand. He doesn't know where she puts them, or if she puts them anywhere at all because that is when she does kiss him. Her mouth is soft, devastating, and he and lets the sensation roll over him like a wave.

This time she doesn't need to poke or prod him, and he goes more than willingly. His back hits the mattress, and her weight on him is startling for a second: muscle and bone, but the salt on her cheeks is ephemeral, disappears under his kisses, and he'd like to say her clothing does too but she removes that herself, and quicker than he can: fumbling more than anything. Only that she doesn't notice or doesn't mind, maybe, helping him out more than capably, until they're naked, both of them. Skin on skin, and he isn't afraid any more -- at least not of her and not of running his hands down her back, across her breasts, letting his tongue and a touch of teeth follow the same path.

She moans and helpfully lifts up a little when he slides his fingers down her belly and two inside where she's searing and so, so slick; it's a thrill to slide his other hand into her red hair and hope to hell she will respond and a bigger one when she does, does bend down to gasp into his mouth at every twist and turn. He's lucky she's willing and able to grip him, hard, taking his cock inside her in addition to his fingers, and as they move, rocking gently and less so, much less so, he thinks no, no, he's lucky period.

When he wakes, it's not yet morning, and she's not yet gone. Olivia Dunham fully dressed by the window, looking outside: that he does not need corrective lenses for. His lips are dry when he licks them, but they're also still bursting with her taste. "I'm sorry," he says because What happened? is not a question she will answer. And because he genuinely is.

"I got that," and her voice is too free of irony for him to as much as mentally comment on this. When she turns around to look at him, Lincoln has to force himself not to glance away.

"It's not even light outside," he says. Shakespeare he's not, nor a harlequin novel writer, but still: "Come back here, just for a while?"

Her response is going to be something to the effect of not being able to, having to ride off into the sunrise --

"Okay." And Olivia Dunham nods slowly, lies down next to him even more so. Lincoln curls himself around the clothed shape of her body and pulls the cover over both of them until the staccato of her heartbeats is the only sound he can hear.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Fringe Kinkmeme](http://fringe-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org), with love (and also porn). Beta thanks to the ever-excellent elfin.


End file.
